Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1)

by Christian A. Brown

  “I can,” declared Caenith.

  He stepped from his boots and pants, naked in the sun as a golden idol to a spirit of masculinity. As Caenith stretched his grand arms to the light, Thackery watched the man’s spine slither in a most unnatural way. Caenith howled and dropped to all fours; sweat or other secretions were glistening upon him almost instantly. Although Thackery was racked with a primal fear, one warning that he was about to witness something horrifying and magnificent, he ran up to Caenith anyhow. Morigan’s fate was his responsibility. Sorren’s involvement was, as well, and he would not see either left without justice.

  “Wait! Please! Take me with you! I can’t lose her! I love her, too! This is my fault! My burden to bear! I know the city! How to get in and how to get out! Ways that you have never heard of!”

  When Thackery fell to his knees before the heaving smith, he wasn’t prepared for what he saw: not the saliva-dripping, budding snout; the squiggling of the man’s veins like little snakes; the sense that Caenith was flowering with bulbs of meat; or that his great shadow was growing ever greater and hairier. As Caenith swelled into something monstrous, he choked out commands distorted by a shifting voice box and wagging tongue.

  “YOU…HECCCH…RIDE…TILL I STOP…HOCCH…ONE REST EACH DAY…HECCCH…BRING THE DAGGER…IF YOU FALL…I LEAVE YOUUUOOOWWWWW!”

  The transformation ended in a howl, and it had happened so swiftly that Thackery could not reconcile the blurring and explosion of fur, flesh, teeth, and claws until it was over. Even then, his mind screamed, No, no, no, no, no! and all he could do was shake in disbelief while the Wolf panted not-quite-canine breath in his face. Impatiently, the Wolf stomped its paw on the quarried hill outside the shelter; so strong was the monster that smaller rocks slid down the range, and the sudden earthquake surprised Thackery to jittery movement. He scrabbled back from the Wolf, and it padded ahead, stirring more stones and dust, frowning at him with its gray eyes. Those eyes reminded Thackery of who this was, and he halted his retreat. Made no easier by the dizzyingly hot sun, his mind struggled to accept the madness of man and beast as one.

  Again the Wolf pawed the hill with annoyance. We need to go, he was implying, and he lay his woolly head down so that Thackery could climb aboard his back. If Thackery had any longer to make a decision, he might have disputed his actions to no end. But fueled by a fear of being eaten for his indecision, he managed to find his legs. He found some sense, too, and quickly bundled up Caenith’s trousers, boots, and promise dagger inside the large man’s shirt in case he would, ideally, stop being a wolf. A wolf! A wolf! A wolf! his interior voice chanted, and he had to ignore it. Almost giggling in hysteria, he slung on the pack, climbed onto his heaving mount, stepping onto ridges of muscle like stirrups and clambering up between two mounds of knotted strength that were the Wolf’s shoulder blades. Power hummed up Thackery’s groin to his chest as he pressed his face to the soft, man-scented fur, and he had barely clutched fistfuls of pelt in his hands before the Wolf shot across the desert like the arrow of a thunderstrike bow.

  While the wind tore at him with animal fury, Thackery laughed, he cried, he sobbed in madness. For the most part, he held on for all he was worth.

  V

  Poor lass. I wonder what the brothers grim have planned for her. All that trouble and all that death, and she is what it amounts to.

  To the right of Morigan, and thinking these dire thoughts, was a brown-haired woman lined by evening shadows: a fellow prisoner on this craft. Akin to the prison marches of old, when slaves were herded into the mines of Menos to toil until they fell, the two of them were cuffed in black manacles with chains that connected their feet to their wrists and their wrists to each other. In the swaying, wind-rapped skycarriage, the heavy iron links beat against their bruised shins and shivered their bones with a song of hopelessness. The two were sitting hip to hip, though Morigan was mostly slumped on her fellow captive until a sand ago when she had groaned herself awake, out of an abyss of unconsciousness that had surely held her for a day, or longer. With her first gasp of awareness, she cried out for Caenith using her body and mind. But her communication was twice stymied: her mouth was muzzled by a cloth gag, and the bees never left her head; they only circled and buzzed. A power was restraining her gift, at least the far reach of it, and her instincts told her that the iron she was bound in had more of a burden than mere weight. Aye, it burned her wrists and ankles coldly, like the bite of frost.

  She could still sense and hear the unseen by touch, however, and the proximity of her fellow captive was enough to catch echoes of what the other thought. This prisoner wasn’t a warm woman; that much Morigan learned in only a short exposure to her. Which was good, figured Morigan, for the soft had no chance of surviving whatever was in store for them. The cool cunning of the Wolf or another boldness reined Morigan, and she counted her enemies. First, the grim men in fitted black clothing that stood steadied by an assassin’s grace in the shaking cabin. Next, the dead man down the bench, who was calmly stitching an overcoat that Morigan vaguely remembered perforating with her dagger. The biggest concern with that adversary was that it didn’t appear that he could be killed, not by any weapon she knew of, aside from magik, perhaps. The nekromancer and that silver-mouthed thing were not in the cabin, though she recalled them well. Calculating the odds of two chained women against seven very dangerous men left Morigan short of a solution.

  Irrespective of her cunning, she would not get far in chains, not without help or an understanding of her fate. Morigan nudged closer to the other prisoner and was given a look of reproach.

  Don’t pull away, and don’t show surprise that I am speaking in your head, whispered Morigan.

  Little perturbed Mouse’s steely demeanor, but the hollow voice, the shout in a mental room of her skull almost had her leaping to the ceiling. She made a small noise of surprise behind her gag, and then shrewdly acted as if she was coughing when attentions snapped upon her. The dead man dropped his coat to the floor and was rubbing her back at once. Mouse made him stop with a glare, and he sheepishly chased down his thread and garment, returning to his task in a speck. When the situation had calmed, and both women were bleakly focused ahead like the preoccupied prisoners they were supposed to be, Morigan whispered again.

  We need to talk, you and I. This is the only way that I think it is safe to do so. As long as we are touching or relatively close, you can hear my words, and I can hear yours. Respond if you understand me.

  Mouse concentrated on what she was to say. Can you…can you hear me? A pause, as the message was relayed—and was that a tinny buzz, wondered Mouse—and then the woman next to her replied.

  Yes. What is your name?

  Mouse entered a short debate about how much to reveal to a woman who apparently could enter her head. Hiding the truth from a seer seemed a pointless endeavor, she decided.

  Mouse. You may call me Mouse. And you, strange witch?

  Along with Mouse’s words, the bees returned with a few droplets of stolen memory nectar. Morigan was silent a spell while she sifted through images of a metal eye; the rank smell of a man’s unwashed sexual sweat; a handsome, dark-haired face hidden in a hood—even with only his thin jaw showing, she knew this man was charismatic—and lastly, a gloomy manor with a rusted playground and scattered cricket set. Feelings of pitiful sadness tainted this final scene, and Morigan was stirred. This Mouse had lost something: her love, her innocence. After requesting that the bees behave in their travels, Morigan sent another thought to Mouse.

  Morigan is my name. Where are they taking us?

  Menos.

  Morigan swallowed her distress. Every speck in this craft took her farther from the Wolf, though she knew in her heart of hearts that he was on the chase. The hope was there; she needed only to fan the flame.

  Why have they taken you? asked Morigan.

  The living one that looks like the dead man beside me, he’s mad as a bull with a hornet up its ass. Master Blackbriar, he is. Sorren by
first name. A nekromancer of the sickest kind, which is saying a lot for those folks. He stole, well, paid my employer to own me, and I can only imagine what he will do to you or me after seeing what he has done to others. Stitched a woman—a living woman, ghastly as that sounds—with bags of powder, whistling while he did it. He thinks that I’m someone I am not.

  Again, Morigan saw the dilapidated black manor, its windows frosted with grime. She demanded that the bees stop their foraging. While Morigan’s mind had slipped, Mouse had been repeating a question over and over, wanting it to be heard: Why have they taken you?

  They want something from me, replied Morigan, and delayed before further explaining herself. Yet the same desperate trust that won over Mouse, that sinking reality that there was no one here to help them besides themselves, persuaded Morigan to be honest—within reason.

  I have seen things, she continued. I have information that I think would be of value to those who wanted to abuse it. I should have realized sooner that I was putting myself in danger, but I…well, I was distracted. I propose that what we think of next is our escape.

  Our escape? replied Mouse. This woman was as much guile as she was surprise. Cautious to her core, Mouse didn’t fall into like with people, though she felt a curious tugging of respect toward this daring stranger.

  Yes, our escape, Mouse. For I do not think I could do any of this alone and I don’t need my gifts to tell me that you are as doomed as I. That look of creeping death, I saw it on your face in my master’s smoking tower. Suddenly, Morigan remembered Thackery, and she swallowed before she could force the questions from herself. There was an old man; I believe this Sorren had come for him. They have an ancient grudge. Did the nekromancer succeed? Or does my master, the old man, live? Please, what do you remember? Think back. Think as hard as you can. I need to know if he has survived.

  Mouse fought to recall the incidents in Eod. While under the control of Sorren, her field of view was limited to forward sight only, and she hadn’t seen much. When the nekromancer was finished with his gruesome surgery on that unfortunate elderly woman, he wiped off his hands and doled out metal amulets—as plain as coins on a chain—to each member of his shadowy company. The talismans came with a warning that if they lost the amulets, they lost their lives. After dressing their bomb, they left the inn and took several carriages across town to the breathtakingly cultivated streets of King’s Crown, where the beauty of the neighborhood rattled the bars of even Mouse’s dismal prison. Only for a speck, however, for then the Raven’s bloody orchestrations commenced. Thule—yes, that was his name—was called from his tower by the woman who was now an instrument of war. Safe and smug in the alley behind the tower, the Raven smiled as the old man ran out and took the bait, while they filtered into the sorcerer’s sanctum with no more than a tingle of reproach from the wards. Mouse didn’t see much from then on, only heard the Raven’s quiet whispers as he channeled his voice into his puppet. Similar to when he was absent in the afternoons, his hold on her was weaker when his Will was split between more than one person.

  Time is up, dear Uncle, the nekromancer had said.

  Once proclaimed, there was a tremendous explosion that creaked the walls of the tower; heat licked her back and smoke clotted her vision. Her eyes stung and her sight became a smear, though she detected sounds of battle and hints of a reddish fighter causing mayhem among the men. The dead man left her for a speck and then returned, coughing—unusual for him—and suddenly Sorren was screaming for the bitch to be brained. Hope soared in her, though it was crushed momentarily when the dead man ushered her from the tower. A bit of shouting for their group to halt was heard, then the slicing of swords and gurgling of cried deaths. Another skycarriage awaited them, to take them to the one left in the desert. What she saw of Eod last was a pillar of smoke rising from its white majesty, like a signal along the mountains to herald war, which this truly would be. Through all these remembrances, Mouse searched for any clue regarding the fate of the old man, yet returned with nothing.

  I don’t know if anything could have survived the amount of witchpowder they packed that poor corpse-mule with. I am sorry, Morigan.

  The Wolf in Morigan allowed her to devour the news of Thackery’s death with cold compassion. The poetry of life lay in death, and that was an order to be revered even if the heart cried at loss. Later she would grieve, once the hunt was over and she had clawed her way to freedom. Then she and Caenith could sing to the moon together, and bury whatever piece of Thackery’s memory they could find beneath Mifanwae’s stones.

  Morigan, are you sad? Don’t be. We have the living to think about, namely ourselves, reminded Mouse.

  I am angry, not sad. And my anger can wait.

  Good, said Mouse. I have learned a few things that might help us. Listen and see what you can make of my observations. The nekromancer’s power has limits; the more he affects, the weaker the hold. Furthermore, it ebbs if he is away for too long, like a drug that simply loses effect when it cannot be administered. And he is tired after all the activity in Eod, which is why I’ve been bound to you in plain old iron.

  This isn’t plain old iron, Morigan disagreed. It has done something to my magik; otherwise, I could reach into the minds of every man in this room and rip out what we need to know to survive.

  Mouse frowned. Ah, that would make sense. I remember him whining about how his power didn’t work so effectively on you. We’ve been chained up in feliron, I suppose. It’s what the Council of the Wise bind naughty sorcerers in who are awaiting execution. Still, the fact that you remain able to “magik” is certainly our greatest advantage once we get these chains off.

  Quietly as a young rogue, Morigan tested her restraints; they were tight enough to whiten her hands and surely impossible to contort oneself through.

  No, that won’t work, commented Mouse, noting Morigan’s sly movement. I’ve tried and I can slither from chains like a greased snake. We don’t need a pick, either; we just need someone to let us out of them. The dead man might do it. I almost had the screws in him earlier before Sorren shut my trap for good. I don’t know what the history is between those two, but it involves a woman named Lenora. The dead man was in love with her, and the madman was, too, I believe. As unlikely as it is, he is the only of our captors to show signs of consideration. I wasn’t aware that the reborn could feel, but he surely does. He feels for this Lenora, the woman I bear a striking resemblance to. He doesn’t remember her, not as he should for a woman he loved. I think I could twist him to help if only I knew the right words to say to him.

  The bees were sparking their stingers against Morigan’s skull, eager as caged hounds to be released. They could smell delicious nectar wafting from the dead man: pheromones of sorrow and tragedy. However, she couldn’t let them out if she wanted to. Not unless…

  If I can touch him, as I am touching you, I can get into his head, realized Morigan. I don’t know if it will be enough to unlock his secrets, but I shall try. I shall hammer that lock with everything I have.

  Well, I’ll be fuked! I think we have a fool’s hope! Mouse laughed, but only in the space that she and Morigan could hear.

  It seems that we do, replied Morigan.

  The vessel rocked its way through the night. By dawn it would arrive in Menos. Without the smallest glance to each other, deadpan to their captors, the women wisely used every sand they were given to conspire. As light stung their tired eyes, and the skycarriage flew toward a new gloom—the black cloud of Menos—the captives readied themselves for the moment when they would convince the dead man to set them free. Even then, as the darkness of Menos’s pollution wrapped the skycarriage, he glanced to the two prisoners with mournful regret, and Morigan knew he could be broken.

  VI

  At the edge of Kor’Khul, on the border between greenness and sand, Magnus told his soldiers the cause of their march. Shining and proud, the silver men assembled for the morning on the grasslands outside Meadowvale. Up and down the lines, his mar
e, Brigada, bolted like black lightning, and the king’s voice, bolstered by sorcery, echoed like the thunder that followed.

  Remember your oaths, men and women of the Silver Watch! he declared. This is the time that all debts to your kingdom are repaid. I must tell you the truth of our journey, and what you have committed yourselves to do. My brother has gone mad! (No gasps from the men’s cold faces, only frowns.) We ride south to see if he can be cleansed of his madness. If not, then we shall return him to Eod in chains of feliron. Every courage, ever honor is needed for this fight, and if you think that you are short on either, cast yourself from the Watch, from Eod, and never return. For the weak do not tread onward. The weak are not the cloth from which we cut the heroes of tomorrow. And against Brutus, we can have only heroes. Men and women with swords and even the smallest fear will not be enough: they will be ghosts before the battle is won. Ask yourself, are you heroes or are you spirits to be forgotten? Declare yourself now and ride onward, or ride back. The choice belongs to you.

  He stirred Brigada and plunged into Meadowvale. Come the counting of heads that night, not a single soldier had left their legions. With providence, a thousand warriors of stone wills could be enough to triumph against Brutus.

  Meadowvale was glorious in the spring. It was a brocade of green fields and threading rivers ruled by weary, irregular hillocks, like ruined castles grown over with moss. Once, in an age that only the kings had seen, this was a land of fire and ash. Then, when the great inferno swept these vales no more and the land had cooled, life found the volcanic sediment to be a ripe bosom. As the king’s legions moved south, the land welcomed them with arms of verdant beauty. The line of horses wound through great dales of pine and shaggy firs, trees so old that the king could hardly remember when they were saplings. In the trees sang throaty birds, and in the bushes rustled hearty animals for the Watchmen to hunt at night. Thus, the army’s campfires were always satisfying and cheery, even if it was known by now that this was a march of war.